


I Wasn't Expecting You

by DothTheRaven



Series: Follow Me Down, down, down [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Good Peter Hale, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lawyer Peter Hale, POV Peter Hale, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rule 63, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Sexism, Sexual Assault, Tattooed Stiles, Time Travel, Trauma, Traumatized Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DothTheRaven/pseuds/DothTheRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wait,” she says, and the Sheriff hasn’t heard her voice this strong before. It’s melodious. It reminds him of his wife’s when she sings lullabies to their daughter; something she hasn’t felt up to for a couple of months. Damn. Why does one word from this stranger make him this nostalgic?</p><p>“There is something that you can do for me, actually. Don’t call me Ms. Valenka. Can you… can you use my first name?” She looks entirely too fragile to be asking such a simple request. He fears that if he says no she will shatter.</p><p>“Of course. Let me know if you need anything, Stiles.” </p><p>She turns her face away and he shuts the door between them.</p><p>***</p><p>Stiles has a plan, a good one, and it’s going well—until she’s arrested for something she doesn’t even remember doing. And of course it’s her luck that Sheriff Stilinski is there to interrogate her, being all nice and talking about his nine year-old daughter like it’s not ripping out Stiles' very heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wasn't Expecting You

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, please let me know if I missed tags or warnings.....
> 
> AND....
> 
> WARNING: this story includes major themes of non-con, sexual assault, implied rape… Please beware.

“I believe you when you say that you didn’t mean to do it, Ms. Valenka, but you can’t deny the facts: you assaulted an officer, who happens to be the son of Judge Dixon, who has a very expensive lawyer from San Fransisco, and who is also pressing charges, both criminal and civil…”

Sheriff Stilinski pauses, scrubs a hand over his head and assesses the girl—young woman in front of him. Pale skin, wide eyes and a smattering moles all scream innocent. But her hunched shoulders and tired eyes read more of contrition and defeat.

“Just, if you could answer a few questions, I’m sure this process would go much easier, for everyone,” the Sheriff urges. He could pull out his academy interrogation tactics, but for some reason he just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see this woman sad or upset or broken. He wants to take her home and feed her a warm meal. He wants to send her into his wife’s most capable hands and wait for the look of incredulous panic as his daughter Gen bulldozes the conversation with random facts and stories.

Wait. He has to stop. This is a suspect. She’s more than a suspect—she’s a perpetrator, and he needs to retain his objectivity.

“Your ID says that you’re 27, but you look younger than that.”

Ms. Valenka shrugs, and the wide neck of her loose black sweater slides down to reveal the initial swirls of an intricate and apparently large tattoo covering her shoulder and chest.

“You haven’t told us what you’re doing in town, or why you came here,” he says and she looks down, long lashes obscuring her amber eyes. God, she looks like bambi—why the hell did she go and deck one of his officers? And she just happened to pick the biggest jackass of the lot.

He sighs. “Listen kid, I want to help you, but you’ve got to start talking.”

“I don’t know what good that will do, it seems there is a pretty solid case against me, and anything I say may just serve as that last piece of information needed to get a guilty verdict.” Her voice is soft, but the words carry an edge.

“Just…” he pauses and stands to his full height. “You are entitled to have a lawyer present.”

“I know. I can’t afford one.”

“Well, if you were listening when you were arrested you would know that if you can’t afford it, one will be provided to you.”

“I know, but I doubt that a public defender would be able to make any headway in the face of Judge Dixon’s fancy lawyer from San Fransisco.”

At least she had been paying attention. He hadn’t been sure that anything he said had gotten through to her. It didn’t help that she was right. He knows the public defenders, and Dixon’s lawyer—lawyers, plural, maybe—will wipe the floor with any of them.

“How about the best lawyer in town?”

“Did you miss the part where I can’t afford the best lawyer?” she says, vitriol evident in her voice, but it lacks a genuine sting. It’s more like she’s accustomed to spitting out retorts, and is using that to hide something. What that is, he doesn’t know.

“Well, lucky for you, her firm takes on a couple of pro-Bono cases every year, and she owes me one, or two. Hell, having to put up with her ass of a brother, she owes me more than a couple.” He grins and looks down to Ms. Valenka. Her eyes are opened, eyebrows raised, and behind the confusion he can detect something else. Heartbreak maybe. But also hope.

When she speaks, her voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Why would you do that for me?”

“I like you, kid, and if it were my daughter here, then I’d want her to have the best damn lawyer out there.”

He must have said something wrong, because her eyes drop, and her shoulders stiffen further. He waits for her to respond, and after a few moments of silence she offers a quiet “thanks,” and a glance. She looks away quickly, blinking.

“I’m gonna go make that call. Can I get you anything? Some water? Coffee?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, you hang tight, and just let me know if you need anything Ms. Valenka,” he says and heads to the door.

“Wait,” she says, and the Sheriff hasn’t heard her voice this strong before. It’s melodious. It reminds him of his wife’s when she sings lullabies to their daughter; something she hasn’t felt up to for a couple of months. Damn. Why does one word from this stranger make him this nostalgic?

“There is something that you can do for me, actually. Don’t call me Ms. Valenka. Can you… can you use my first name?” She looks entirely too fragile to be asking such a simple request. He fears that if he says no she will shatter.

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything, Stiles.”

She turns her face away and he shuts the door between them.

***

 

Fifteen minutes later he returns, and she’s in the same position as when he left, posture tense, eyes downcast.

“My friend’s in court for the day, but her brother is on the way. I was hoping she would be able to handle this, because she has this way about her that makes you entirely confident that everything is going to be okay, but her brother is one hell of a lawyer, even though he’s a ruthless bastard. He might be even more effective in this situation.”

Stiles nods, a small, jerky, movement. “Thanks.”

“Still doing okay?” he asks, and waits for another nod. “Okay, then I’ll just send him in when he arrives. Holler if you need anything.”

The Sheriff hesitates again. He doesn’t feel like leaving her alone in this interrogation room, to wait for that bastard. He almost feels bad subjecting Stiles to the Blue-Eyed-Devil—however he got that name, the Sheriff doesn’t know. But it’s necessary, after all, if you want something done in the legal world, or even in the non-legal one, you go to Peter Hale.

***

 

Goddamn Talia and all of her idealistic fantasies about being contributing members of Beacon Hills society. (“Bulwarks, Peter, that’s what we’re aiming for, nothing less, and don’t you fucking forget it,” is actually what she said, but no need to split hairs). If not for his sister’s ridiculous determination to keep the Sheriff as far on their side as possible, Peter would be enjoying a nice glass of ‘bane wine and investigating the origins of Selkies as according to the 9th century Irish tablet he had just received.

A perfectly wonderful prospect of an evening ruined by the Sheriff’s propensity to pity strays, and Talia’s insistence on indulging him. He has told his dear Sister-Alpha many times that their problems would largely be mitigated by letting the Sheriff in on their furry little secret, but of course, like with all of his better ideas that stem from a desire to be efficient (“the word you’re looking for is lazy,” Talia always corrects), she rarely agrees.

Peter follows the Sheriff’s direction into interrogation room 3, opens the door, glances at the hunched figure, begins to introduce himself, and then stills. Because the person in the room with him is nigh on panicking.

He looks up from the briefcase he had begun to open, and catalogs what his senses are telling him.

The woman is young, and striking, in an unusual way. The beauty that comes with an unexpected pairing of pleasing features, and character, and life. Her hair is a light brown, streaked with blond—an obviously poorly done dye job, and her blunt and slightly uneven bangs look recently cut. She’s fit, definitely, her shapeless black sweater doing well to mask that, but her tight jeans show off the curves of smooth muscle.

And she has a tattoo, which is… interesting. Definitely interesting.

She’s also probably about to pass out. Knowing humans as he does, Peter realizes that it’s unlikely that she can sustain such an elevated heart rate and short shallow breaths for much longer. Peter lifts his hands in the universal sign of I-come-in-peace (or, as Laura likes to say: “I won’t rip your throat out with my teeth, please, bitch!”).

It seems to work, because her heartbeat immediately slows. It’s unnatural, like a switch was flipped, from a near 200 beats a minute to the reasonable 75 that she was maintaining before he entered the room. She takes one huge gulp of air, and the scent of panic (anxiety, fear, horror, terror) abates.

He narrows his eyes. It’s rare for a human, even one who trains, to have such easy control over their physiological responses. It usually takes a good ten minutes for the parasympathetic nervous system to recover from a fight or flight reaction like he just witnessed. And the question of course, one he asked himself before anything else entered his thoughts, was: what the hell had triggered that reaction?

Peter strides to the table, his steps short and measured. He lowers his briefcase gently, so there will be no loud noise to startle her, and as he arranges papers and opens the file the Sheriff slipped him, he analyzes her scent.

And it almost makes him freeze. If not for his superb control and extensive training, Peter probably would have frozen, eyes flashing and claws sprouting.

Anguish, misery, pain. It’s heartbreak. It’s what she smells the most like. There’s a remaining edge of anxiety, like she’s intentionally tramping down on it, but hasn’t conquered the emotion itself. And there’s confusion. But mostly it’s loss, and he can barely stand it. He wants to stopper his nose so he can’t smell—feel just how much this young woman is suffering.

A moment later, he’s glad that he wasn’t able to block her scent. Because he finally smells her underlying essence—the Identity Scent. It smells like old parchment and soft leather. It smells like spices and vanilla. It’s both exotic and familiar, like one would need to travel the world for many years, and then return, to find that you still identify the scent of home, but from all your wandering it has become foreign. She smells of promises, and his wolf has never been more thrilled.

The thing about Peter’s wolf (never tell Talia. His sister can never hear this) is that it’s lazy. It likes being a wolf, it enjoys when Peter gives in, just a little, to his more lupine tendencies and animal urges. He feels it lolling on its metaphorical back whenever he’s in the courtroom brutally (and unfortunately only verbally) eviscerating his foes. But besides the occasional whine or yip (again, metaphorical), Peter’s wolf really doesn’t give much of a shit (or a real shit either, since, still metaphorical here). And Peter is fine with that.

But now, his wolf is taking an interest. More of an interest than it ever has before, about anything, and if it were possible to knock Peter off his guard, this would do it. As it is, he takes a couple of deep breaths, smiles at his new client, tells his wolf not to worry, that he will do everything in his power (and that’s a lot—he’s a vicious lawyer, brilliant strategist, polyglot, werewolf second to a powerful pack, and master manipulator) to help this woman. He just hopes he won’t regret it.

His eyes find hers before he speaks. He wants to make sure she won’t panic again. His wolf also just wants to look into her eyes. He doesn’t even begin to wonder why his wolf picks now of all time to give a shit and find an agenda.

“I’ll try not to startle you this time,” he says gently, and her eyes widen with confusion. “My name is Peter Hale, and I’ll be your legal representation. If you decide that you would like someone else to represent you or no longer desire my services, all you need to do is say so. You may not be aware, Ms. Valenka, but…”

“Stiles.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Stiles. Please,” she adds, and then look down.

“Of course… Stiles.” Peter tries out the name and his wolf grins. Oh god, this is all gonna go to hell. He’s never been one to deny his wolf. He doesn’t believe in the dualist crap that postmodern anthrotransmorphist theorists spew about man and beast as separate entities, forced together to create a symbiotic and yet inherently contrasting whole. It’s too Freudian, and a load of bull. He occasionally agrees with the more independent theorists who posit that there is no dual nature between man and beast in shifters, and that modern society (incidentally one formed without the mainstream awareness of the supernatural) forces shifters to question their animal and human identities within a dichotomous (and artificial) construct. Peter likes to think that he’s much better integrated than that.

The whole point, is that while he may think of his wolf metaphorically as a separate entity with a shaggy tail and expressive ears, Peter is the first one to admit that he and his wolf aren’t separate at all. And this part of him (his wolf) is telling him to bare his neck at the simple sound of this girl’s name, and from his own lips. Well, it’s… concerning.

“You may not be aware, Stiles, but you enjoy the privilege, as my client, to confidentiality.”

She snorts. It’s not a graceful sound, but it reminds him too much of a wolf’s huff to be anything but musical. Dammit, buy a one-way ticket to Thailand (not that he would ever deny his wolf anything that it truly wanted. After all, that would be denying himself what he wanted, and Peter, while having excellent control, was never the most abstemious of his family—perhaps the least. He rarely did not get that which he wanted.)

“I’m not an idiot,” she says, her voice bringing him out of his wolf-happy thoughts.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Well, assaulting a police officer is not a very smart thing to do.” And he shouldn’t have said that, because she just shuts down, and a moment of terror wafts from her, and then anger, and hate, and frustration, and grief. It all circles back to the aching loss, and he wonders how she can still function with such a deep hole in her soul.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll tell you what I think the best course of action is, and you can decide where we go from there.”

That makes her pause. She looks confused again, like the offer of a choice was surprising. Like she had been waiting for him to send a volley of judgement, or even commands.

“You’re serious,” she says. It sounds like she had expecting him to be joking, and the fact that he wasn’t threw her for a loop. Who the hell is this woman.

“Very. The more you can tell me, the more I will have to work with.”

She nods, swallows, and her mouth spreads into a frown.

“I messed up,” she says after several seconds pass. “I had a plan, it was perfect, it was going perfectly… Everything was going to be… I had a plan that would make everything better, and god, it’s so fucking stupid that I lose it for one second, and Officer Pervert Dixon happens to…”

She takes a breath and steadies herself, but doesn’t look up. “Sorry,” she says, her hand making a frantic loop. “It’s an attention thing, sorta. I suffer from occasional bouts of verbal diarrhea.” She chuckles darkly. “My dad said that if I ever got arrested I’d just have to talk at the officers and they’d let me go because they would be too damn annoyed to want to hold me, and he should know, he was a cop.” She stops, like she hadn’t meant to say that.

“Was,” Peter prompts. “Did he retire?”

Stiles looks up, her face blank. “No. He died.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, and he finds that he truly means it, and notices that Stiles seems to be able to tell as well. Her perplexed frown returns.

“I don’t really remember much of what happened. I’m sorry. I wish I did, but sometimes I get these…” She stops again.

“Fits?” Peter asks, having absolutely no idea what the right term for such a human ailment is.

“Flashbacks,” she corrects, and it’s barely a whisper.

He frowns. That was not what he was expecting. But he thinks about it, and looks at her all over again, with new eyes, and his stomach lurches. It makes sense. She holds herself not like she is expecting a blow, but trying to keep herself together after already receiving one. Her eyes flit about the room, hesitating at the exit. She looks ready to bolt. The anxiety that never leaves her scent. The almost constant terror. Like a werewolf, the scars may not be apparent on her skin for the world to see, but someone, or several someones hurt her, badly.

He almost leaps from the chair. Again, his perfect control is the only thing that keeps him in place, and the thudding of her heart. His wolf wants to hunt down the monsters that hurt her. He wants to tear and rend flesh, he wants someone to bleed, he can’t just sit here and…

“Peter?” her voice is soft, and still confused, but there’s a soft glow of sympathy in her eyes, and Peter has to wonder what reason in the nine circles does she have to feel sympathy for him?

“What happened before the flashback?” he asks.

“I was…” Stiles grimaces, like she doesn’t want to say, but knows that she has to. “I was walking to a coffee shop, the one on Oak Street… um, Hills Cafe?”

“Coffee Heaven,” Peter corrects automatically.

“Yeah, right,” Stiles says. “I was walking and I passed by two guys, one of them was Officer Dixon, I didn’t notice that then, I mean, I didn’t really notice them. But…”

“But?” Peter prompts when she falls silent.

“But they followed me. Just Dixon, maybe, but the other guy was walking too, farther behind, I think, but I definitely heard two sets of footsteps, and I thought I could just go into the Cafe, and everything would be fine, and I was probably being paranoid anyway… I sorta have that problem sometimes, but you know it’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you, not that they are, whoever they is. Anyway… Then he sort of…”

Peter leans forward on his seat, his claws pricking at his fingertips.

“He sort of grabbed me.”

“Sort of?” Peter prompts, and tries his hardest not to growl the words. He can be a professional. He can.

“He had a hand on my shoulder, and then he…”

Peter doesn’t urge her on this time. He waits.

“He put his hand on my ass and…”

He does growl this time. It’s subvocal, so Stiles won’t have heard it, but if another supernatural creature were around, they would know that there is a very pissed werewolf two seconds away from murder. Stiles doesn’t look up, and she doesn’t seem to notice that anything is wrong.

“And he said something. And that’s the last thing I know, because I think, no I know that what he said is what triggered it, because that’s what… anyway, it’s something I heard before, and it’s not a good memory, and I always thought Dixon was a perv, but, I mean, I didn’t mean to assault him, but I thought I was in danger, and I didn’t know what I was doing and I can’t fucking believe that this is happening.”

Peter stills. There is simply too much to digest in that slew of words. He pushes away many of his questions, and as much of his anger as he can, and focuses on facts.

“What did he say?”

“He called me a slut and said he wanted some fun, and I told him no, and tried to push his hand away, and then he said…” She closes her eyes. There’s shame, and fear, and hate, and anger, and something that tastes like loss and betrayal.

“He said, ‘don’t lie,’” she says, her voice wobbling. And then she noisily sucks in some air, and continues with a flat tone. “He said, ‘don’t lie baby, I know you want it.’”

Peter stops breathing for several seconds as Stiles dashes away some tears with a curled hand.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s stupid. I know. It’s just some fucking sexist asshole, and I… You’re right, I am stupid.”

“No!” Peter says, and Stiles’ eyes snap to his. “It’s not stupid, you’re not stupid. If anyone is stupid—and that’s such a puerile insult, don’t you think—it’s Dixon. This wasn’t your fault, believe me, I have often been criticized for too easily assigning blame.” He holds her gaze. “This was not your fault.”

“I know,” she says, and it’s not a lie. Nothing she has said has been a lie. Not even a white lie. People lie all of the time, except, it seems, for her. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t mess up,” she adds.

Peter doesn’t have an answer for that.

“So,” he says conversationally after several moments. “This is where I tell you your options. Do you want him to go to jail, the hospital, or both?”

She shakes her head, forehead creased. “What?”

“Well, this is obviously a case of self-defense, and if anyone disagrees, they are at risk of being labelled a sexist and having their extremely dirty laundry aired, which they have plenty of. And of course, if you wanted, we could go for a diagnosis, have a psychologist testify that Dixon sexually assaulting you triggered a symptom of your PTSD, and there is no jury anywhere who would think you guilty after I speak with them, and so the real question here is if you want to press charges against officer Dixon.”

He can’t help but note the several times that Stiles flinched as he spoke.

“Why?”

Peter shrugs. “My family believes strongly in the idea of informed consent. What Dixon did…” (and what had been done to her to give her PTSD in the first place, but he wasn’t about to bring that up to her now. She would be terrified by how invested he already was in her…). “Well, what he did is anathema to my beliefs. So, what would you like to have happen?”

Stiles sighs. “As much as that pig deserves to go to jail, I really really really don’t want to be part of a lawsuit right now. I just want all of the charges against me dropped, and then maybe make a formal complaint so he has to go to sensitivity training and spend time on probation. It’s not much, but it’s all I can handle right now.” She sounds genuinely regretful, like if she had the inclination she would joyfully drag Dixon, and maybe his whole family, through the mud.

Peter simply nods. “Easily done. Shall we get you out of here?” he says, and grins when she startles.

“But, I can’t pay for bail, and what about…”

He shakes his head. “Really, don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Her breath catches, and again, for a moment, she is shattered, just heartbroken, but she pulls herself together and nods. And again, Peter has no idea what he said to cause that reaction. He stands and collects the papers on the table.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Stiles asks, genuine curiosity filling her tone.

“I owe the Sheriff a favor,” he says and she frowns.

“No really, why?”

He lets the full intensity of his gaze settle on her. It’s a weight that not many can comfortably bear. He’s had alphas flinch back from this look. But she seems to let it wash over her, settling in and down in a way he didn’t know possible, and it brings a hint of a smile to her lips.

“Because,” Peter says, every word true. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

The smile on Stiles’ lips widens before she tucks it away and smooths out her face. “Well,” she says, amusement sparking in her eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t expecting you, either.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was not planning on Peter’s POV (or the Sheriff's). If (more like when) I continue with this series, I plan on splitting between Peter’s POV and Stiles. Maybe finish out some bits with Peter and then fill in some parts with Stiles. There’s obviously a lot more going on than what happens in this work alone, and I have it pretty much planned out. But I also want to work on my other stories (especially my WIP), so I might not add to it with any regularity. But then again, who knows, because when inspiration strikes…. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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